Sentimental
by FroggyFeet
Summary: Malik didn't know when the silly infatuation started.


_You're the light and I am the firefly_  
><em>You're the star and I am the blackened sky - Strawberry Blonde, by The Subways<em>

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><p>Malik didn't know when it started. Usually, he knew anything asked of him. He knew the dates of every celebrated holiday in Jerusalem, Acre and even the infidel's renowned Christmas! He knew the exact placements of the stars and even what planet was named what. He knew Latin, and had even saved relics from the oldest of shrines dotted throughout the Holy Land.<p>

He knew English, Spanish, Italian, French, Arabic and so many other languages and dialects he was called Silver Tongue by the scholars. He knew how to paint, and even spent a few hours a week on his paintings. But what he didn't know was how the silly infatuation started.. Being the pompous, vain man that he was, Altair agreed nearly instantly to the idea of modelling for the rafiq, especially after they had rekindled a shaky friendship. Who else but the infamous Angel of Death would oblige?

Sometimes, the assassin's need to be noticed really worked against him.

Said assassin fell through the roof moments after Malik's day dreaming began, but in reality, he had dreamt the day away. Map forgotten, he had allowed himself to be whisked away to dreamland where many Altairs roamed half naked talking poetry like in the romance novels he never read. Said rafiq was still far away, the real Altair noted. He hadn't yelled at him, nor noticed the bells of the city screaming for his blood. Hadn't sworn and yanked the sunroof closed. Hadn't thrown pillows at him or emasculated him.

He sat at the counter, head in his only hand with his eyes closed.

It was the perfect time to screw with him.

Altair would have become a self proclaimed ninja with the stealth he held while padding over to Malik. With a swift, silent movement, he fluttered down to sit in front of the counter; out of sight of Malik should he open his eyes. It was when he heard the first giggle that he almost choked. Malik didn't giggle.

What. The. Hell.

He craned his neck upwards, and cursed his position; he couldn't see Malik's face.

After several moments, and another giggle, Altair shimmied up the counter and peeked over its face. He stared up at the shorter man from under his hood, surprised he was still in dreamland. Vacantly, he wondered what the man dreamt of. Probably busty women feeding him sticky sweets. Probably not, Malik wasn't the type for such blatant slobbery. Altair however, was.

With a gentle movement, he straightened and even leant up on the counter to get a better position. He even managed to get a hairsbreadth away from Malik before he blew in his face. The man shrieked and fell backwards but Altair caught his flailing arm and yanked him back onto his chair. Malik hissed darkly at him when he regained his balance.

Altair smiled sweetly, "What were you thinking of so fondly that you loathe to part with it, brother?"

Malik blinked stupidly at him, Altair spoke like a pig, not poetical. What had happened…? Altair cocked his head, and still the smile splayed across his face. Malik coughed nervously and told himself the flutter wasn't there, "nothing that would concern you, Altair."

The assassin frowned in mock pain. "What concerns you concerns me, Mal."

"It never has before."

"Maybe it has started to."

Malik blinked stupidly at him again, and once again as lost for words. He didn't know when it had started. The fluttering. As if he had caught a small bird and encaged it in his chest. It made him sensitive. Like an airhead woman. He almost felt the light die outside. It made him poetic, the fluttering. It made him sensitive to the breath of the assassin on his face; he hadn't realised they had gotten so close. He wasn't as perceptive as he used to be.

Altair himself didn't know what to make of Malik's advance. A strong swell of heat had pooled in his stomach, coiled and ready as if he were presented with a mouth watering feast. Malik made a strange sound, almost like a gulp of air, face tilted towards his own. Any other time and any other man, and it wouldn't be like this. But this wasn't any other man, it was Malik. The same sun kissed boy from his childhood. The same caramel soft skin that made fine muslin blanch with jealousy. The same sinewy flesh he used to bite and kiss better amongst sweet nothings and bed sheets.

He smiled scantly as he realised Malik was all but crawling across the bureau counter, eyes warm like honey. He didn't know when his eyes had closed, but the warmth radiating from the other man meant that he wasn't dead or asleep in the black well of heat. They really were both knelt on the bureau counter, knees buried in crumpled paper and drying ink.

Malik vacantly remembered something vital as he sent Altair's bandoleer full of knives to the ground with a touch, but he just couldn't place it. Couldn't pin it down or catch up with it. The hotness of the assassins mouth had stolen that ability from him, and coupled with the calloused fingers massaging his throat and hair meant his clothes would probably catch up with it faster than he would. The sash fell rather delicately to the ground as Malik began to unfold the assassin robes, coming away faster than the dressings of a book. Ready and waiting to be opened. Have its pages ravished.

Altair didn't think as deeply, enveloped in his little world narrowed down to the sun child and the hand in his clothes. It wasn't a dainty, feminine hand that danced around with distracted touches to his muscles. This hand knew such things well enough, and wasn't as easily dissuaded from the prize in his pants as a woman's' hands usually were. A woman's hands would have been too flowery and dipped in perfume. Malik smelt of salt and books. Dusty and comfortable. Easy and familiar, like the comfort of a well worn shirt that you refuse to throw out. Sentimental. Valuable. Irreplaceable.

Altair liked that idea.

Malik's muffled shriek made Altair jump, but the assassin was soon pushed out of his little world as he hit the floor hard and Malik shifted to turn away, face buried in a book. Altair almost blew a vein until the little novice walked in, oblivious to the world. He was oblivious to even Altair's glare, but it didn't matter. The look cooled as it rested on Malik, bloody red cheeks and throat naked to the world. The novice asked, and Malik claimed it was very hot in the bureau. The novice bought it, left his findings and scuttled out.

"Well."

"Well what?"

Altair smirked like the devil. Malik gulped worriedly and took a single step backwards for all the good it did him. The Rafiq's shriek was smothered by the other assassin's advances, which led the both of them to the back room. They were almost as oblivious as the novice to the fact that some of the master assassins had come to complete a mission in Jerusalem and had set up camp in the entranceway. In full earshot.

Malik hadn't any idea how it had started.


End file.
